In Thy Name
by Lennelle
Summary: "I shot God and now he's letting me feel it." Set post s14 finale.


Set post s14 finale

* * *

They have a knack for missing death by the skin of their teeth. The three of them still bear battle wounds from the cemetery; flesh scraped by overlong nails on dead hands, bruises rooted down to the bone where they were thrown into headstones. They should have died, should be laid out by Jack's corpse.

Sam squeezes his eyes closed; Dean's bandana pressed hard against his shoulder. The wound burns and he can feel his heartbeat through his skin but none of that hurts as much as the image of Jack's face; his empty sockets filled with ash and staring up at the dark.

Dean drives the impala with his foot stomped down on the gas. The clock on the dash tells them it's almost 4pm but the sky is a midnight blue blanket pulled over their heads. The world is likely in chaos but Sam, Dean and Cas ride silently in the car, speeding down the highway to who knows where.

"We can't go back to the bunker," Dean says. The memory of Chuck lounging at the bunker's war room table, Chinese takeout in hand, makes Sam's stomach twist.

"Chuck will know where we are no matter what," Cas says quietly from the back seat. Sam catches a glimpse of him in the rear-view mirror; eyes cast down, mouth half-open in shock. He wears grief like the rest of them, like a human.

Sam presses his forehead to window and sighs. The feel of the cool glass against his skin is more of a relief than he'd expected and it's only then that he realises how hot he feels. He wipes one sweaty palm against his jean-clad thigh.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asks, his little-brother-antennae in tune as always.

"I'm fine," Sam grunts, and even Cas can smell his bullshit.

"If you pull over, I can heal the wound," he offers.

The car swerves and wobbles up onto the roadside. The feel of Castiel's palm against his shoulder is like dipping your foot into perfectly warm water; the heat blooms across his skin, light catching his eyes. Sam's been given an angel bandaid more times than he can count and he knows what's supposed to come next. The sting of skin knitting itself back together at an unnatural pace never comes and Sam is left hot and sickly as Cas pulls his hand away.

"It won't heal," Cas says, confused.

"I shot God," Sam replies, "and now he's letting me feel it."

"Fucking asshole," Dean mutters, turning the key in the ignition. The headlights soak up the road ahead and Sam watches the asphalt rush beneath them, head still pressed against the glass. He sees shadows wandering the roadside, waiting.

* * *

The first motel they find is abandoned; the phone left off the hook in the reception. Dean cracks open a vending machine like an egg with the axe from the trunk of the car and collects candy and packets of chips like he's a kid on Halloween. They grab the first room key they find; lucky number thirteen. Sam spits out the bad taste in his mouth onto the sidewalk and trudges along behind Dean and Cas up the stairs.

Once the doors and windows are lined with salt, Dean flicks on the TV. A lady on the news very seriously tells them about minor earthquakes being reported across the country. She doesn't mention the dead rising from their graves, not yet, at least.

Sam's legs begin to shake and he's grateful when Dean takes his good shoulder and guides him to sit at the end of one of the beds.

"Let me take a look," he says, already peeling the fabric of Sam's shirt from the wound. More blood leaks out, hot and fresh. Dean frowns at it. "There's no bullet in there, right?"

"I don't know," Sam admits through gritted teeth. "I sure felt it, though."

"Either way, this needs stitches," Dean says. He grabs the duffel he'd packed out in the parking lot, sifting through candy bars and knives for the tin box that acts as their med kit. Across the room, Cas sits in an armchair beneath a miserable painting of a bowl of fruit, blue eyes latched onto the motel room door.

"You okay, Cas?" Sam asks, then hisses as Dean inserts the tip of the needle into his skin.

Cas blinks and looks over at them as if he only just realises the two of them are there. "I'm fine," he answers dully. "I'm sorry I couldn't heal your wound."

"That's okay- ah!" Sam's heart picks up into a sprint as Dean drags the thread through his flesh. He grips the bed sheets and counts until Dean is done. He makes it to 43. Dean finishes off his handiwork with a splash of whiskey. Sam grabs the bottle and takes a swig, waiting for his breathing to settle.

"I hope Chuck is feeling it as much as I am," he mutters.

"I doubt it," Dean says. "The bastard has probably fixed himself up already, off to destroy the next universe."

The anger comes at Sam like a wave, a flood that fills his lungs and drowns him. Every single shitty thing that's happened in their life was all for one god's amusement; everyone they've lost, everything that's manipulated them and poisoned them, every time they've died and come gasping back to life. And Chuck still wanted more.

Sam gives the bedside table a kick on his way to the bathroom, where he locks the door behind him. He can hear the newsreader's voice mumble through the paper-thin walls, and on top of that is Dean and Castiel's gruff tones. Sam glares at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him is set in a bitter expression, the skin pale and shiny with perspiration. His tattoo peeks out from where his shirt has been pulled aside, and above on his shoulder are his fresh stitches.

_It sends a wave of multi-dimensional energy across a perfectly balanced quantum link between whoever's shooting it and whoever they're shooting at._

Sam remembers when he picked up the gun. He hadn't thought about it in the moment, all he knew is that he wanted Chuck to feel some fraction of the pain he'd caused them. Sam unbuttons his shirt and slips out of it. The stitches are neat and the skin around is red, a small treacle of blood makes its slow journey down to his chest.

Sam rests his fingers lightly over the wound, feels the heat of it and the tenderness of the flesh. His index finger pokes at the stitches, tugs them loose. Sam clamps his teeth together to keep himself quiet as his finger digs deeper. He breaks out into a sudden sweat, his legs tremble beneath him, but he keeps going. He wriggles his finger around. Tough, meaty, warm and wet. It feels like he's being shot again, only in slow motion. He presses down as hard as he can, as far as his finger will go.

_A perfectly balanced quantum link._

"I hope you feel that, Chuck," Sam whispers to the man in the mirror, chest heaving, his shoulder coated in a fresh stream of blood. The face staring back at him grins.


End file.
